


Hearts Torn Asunder

by Arkenshield



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkenshield/pseuds/Arkenshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigrid, Bard's eldest-born came upon a grieving Elven-King. "I see but a golden orb rising in the east, like an ember to light up new hope in an ice-cold heart."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grieve Not

She walked amongst the ruins of Dale.

Dried Orc blood caked on the hem of her simple dress, it would never come off, but Sigrid was glad. Her lips were chapped and she could still feel the glaring pain of a deep gash on her cheek where a blade had struck, it would fester and leave a scar, but Sigrid was glad.

Da and Tilda and Bain were safe and fine now, and for this she was grateful. She had lost her house but not her home, she still had her family, and Sigrid knew she was luckier than most.

An air of emptiness lingered about the somber remains of the battlefield, and she heard the horn of Dale honouring the plain with its mournful hum, bidding its farewell to lives lost over a handful of gold. Of course Sigrid had not the faintest idea how much riches there were in the halls of Erebor. There could be the running rivers of gold the people had sung of in the old tales, or but a handful of rocks, and she could not find it in her heart to care. Now before her eyes, the Desolation was laid to waste beneath by the grieving sky, as shadows of death hovered solemnly over the Lonely Mountain.

They said he had fallen, the King Under the Mountain. Him and his heirs, too.

Sigrid side-stepped the crumbling stones just in time. Her eyes trailed the white dust particles that rose up into the air, one moment lost in a reverie and she would have been crushed underneath it. It mattered not though, for she had lived.

The young maiden recalled upon the faces of the dwarven princes. One lay entrapped in a feverish curse in her home with his life at the mercy of a cruel fate, and another suffered in silence, burnt alive from within by a scorching flame of anguish for fear of losing his brother.

The Valar had been kind, she thought, to not separate the sons of Durin even in death. The ember had burned out, and the forges would hold naught but cold ashes. There was much lost, and much to grieve for, but with time the trees will grow and the rivers will flow through these lands again.

Time.

Sigrid pondered as she hopped up the stone steps, her breaths coming out as white mists in the icy cold air.

Some folks had it in abundance, and yet the luxury of time was no salve for their wounds. The hearts that had been torn open would remain dripping red with agony, she had seen it more than once. In Da's eyes, yes. He loved her true, but Da was human and one day he would perish like any mortal would, and along with him his grief for Ma.

No, it was in the eyes of the fair folks that she had seen the reflections of hearts torn asunder by lost. While her kind buried those dead and gone and forgot them when they themselves died, the elves watched on. She knew those eyes had seen countless of souls sailed across the Sundering Seas to the Halls, and today, tomorrow, once year hence, a hundred years from now they would continue to watch. For not all were granted the blessing of mortality.

A gossamer of snowflakes veiled the icy ground which she now tread. Sigrid pulled a worn, old shawl about her frail shoulders and gingerly stepped over the frozen waterfall of Raven Hill. The place was bleak, shadowed almost, and its ruins were wreathed in a fine mist. She placed a pale hand on a fallen stone and could feel music thrumming within its deep sleep; songs of days long lost, of love unforgotten, and of the pain of time.

It was not until she turned the last corner of the spiral staircase at the top of the tower did she see him, he was golden and beautiful, looking out over the battlements, draped in his gown the colour of of winter frost. Grand and regal as ever the Lord of the Woodland Realm was, and as fierce and strong as a King should have been.

But Sigrid saw also the thousands of years of sadness, of defeat, of burden of lost lives that weighed down on his strong shoulders. She could see burning pain etched deep into his elfin features, and when he turned around, she looked deep into his eyes and saw a new spirit of a memory swimming fresh and clear amongst the pools of old ones which were yet shed.

Those were the eyes of a King who lost his beloved, a commander who lost his soldiers, and a father who had just lost a son.

"Why then did you let him go?" she asked.

"Should I have held on to that which was lost?" His rich voice echoed in return, and Sigrid's heart held no answer. She walked over to stand by him and peered out the window hole. It was long until she spoke again.

"It shall be Spring soon."

"No rain would suffice to wash away the blood of my people."

"But should not they hate to see you suffer for their sacrifice?"

"What would a mortal know of the sentiment of elves?"

They stood by in each other's company and silence, watching the horizon beginning to tint with the sweet glow of an approaching dawn, a new day, a new beginning.

"A red sun rises," Thranduil murmured, "Blood has been spilled this night."

"Truly, my Lord," Sigrid sighed, "I see but a golden orb rising in the east, like an ember to light up new hope in an ice-cold heart."

She turned to look up at him.

"Would a forge remain stone cold forevermore, denying that it had been bathed with dragon fire?"

And it was those words that finally struck a cord in the Elven-King's soul. It was Sigrid's soft voice that reawakened the embers buried deep beneath the years of his stone-cold heart. Thranduil let a hint of smile grace his lips as he looked into the eyes of the maiden who stood before him. Yet another insignificant mortal in the eye of fate, true, but also a warm ray of sunlight on the first morning of Spring that melted away the Winter frost.

His heart did not fill with gladness, nor did his being glow with a new hope, but in that moment the Lord of the fair folks realised he would grieve no more. No, he would not grieve for a love long lost for she was blessed now in the land of his forefathers, he would not grieve for the lives of the protectors of the realm for they had pledged their service and fulfilled it, and he would not grieve for his son who was never to return, for fate had drawn a path for him in a grand tale, and Thranduil would not deny it from him.

So the King gently reached out to caress her face and leant down and place his lips upon hers beneath the watchful gaze of a new rising sun. His fingers lifted up her chin as he looked upon this mortal girl and drank in her sweetness, thanking her for the pain she went through to make him finally see.

But most of all, though Thranduil did not believe a new day would wash away the grieve, he kissed Sigrid of Esgaroth because she was that one golden sun now risen up in the sky...


	2. Sigrid of Esgaroth

_Venture not into the woods, child. The forest is accursed._

_How so?_   _Sigrid smiled._   _What lies beyond those sentinels?_

_They say souls linger there, unseen, quiet as dead wind. The forest is home to these wood sprites, an enchanted river, and nightmares turned beasts. Those who enter fall under their spell and never return._

"Surely you don't mean that, Ida," Sigrid said softly as she held up a shift to her washing line. "We were here today a year ago, you and I, and the rest of us all the same... When the elves marched upon these lands and drove away the darkness. We lived to see the morning, did we not?"

"Hear me, child," the grey-haired widow grumbled, "Do not go around getting those ideas into that pretty head of yours. One of these days you shall drive your Da mad."

Sigrid stood on tiptoe, clipping the fabric to the line and watched it swayed sadly in the wind like a lost ghost. She let her eyes roam towards the forest that lay far to the west beneath the grey sky. The Woodland Realm.

It was a year today since that morning in the tower atop Raven Hill... Within the year, Dáin II Ironfoot had rebuilt Erebor, as had the Dragon Slayer his ancestral home of Dale. The dwarves kept in their mountain, but they traded. The Men of Ithilien and Rohan traded with them at times, too.

She heard no more of the elves.

They had disappeared without so much as a whisper into the thin veil of mist that bordered their twilight realm and the lands of Men that fateful morning. They had moved swiftly, quietly, and when she closed her eyes and opened them again, the fair folks were there no more. Some people in Dale said it was best to leave the mean spirits alone to their kind, others said the Woodland-King's robes left a red trail of blood from his enemy's severed heads in their wake, and the rest said the whole battle was naught but a trick of the eye.

So Sigrid let them believe what they would.

She bent down to collect her empty washing basket just as a thundercloud passed over the grey sky. It was noon time, but the days had grown dark. Sigrid's fingers fidgeted at the hem of her old dress where the stain from the bloody battle remained. The people of Dale called her the Lady of the town now, being the Dragon Slayer's daughter and the savior of the poor. And Sigrid's laugh would toll like a bell, for their Lady wore not silken robes but old rags of rough cambric, and her hands were coarse and withered from hard chores and steering. She would not shower herself with gems and jewels while there were still mouths unfed and roofs un-thatched and some who had naught to live by. She was Sigrid of Esgaroth, she was the people.

Sigrid tucked a loose curl behind her ear and bid the old lady a good-afternoon as she made towards the house. Tilda had grown another year now, and Bain too. With their eagerness to help, the duty of the household chores were lessened from her shoulders, and Sigrid smiled fondly at the thoughts of her siblings, she thanked the Valar's blessing every day for keeping her family whole.

"...She is not home, sir."

Sigrid stopped short at the gruff sound of her father's voice as she neared the house. Pinning herself behind a wooden pillar, the young woman leant forward to glance upon the figure that stood before her father.

A soldier of Men.

"I come with a proposal, Sire."

"Call me Bard, and like I said, my daughter Sigrid is not home."

The man dressed in nobel garbs gave a little cough.

"I shall be staying at the town's inn. Do let me know once the Lady Sigrid returns, for I will make my intentions known."

She did not need to look at Da's face to know he was scowling. Sigrid sighed. It had been this way since Dale was rebuilt. Despite their tiny home and their modest attires, noblemen and fathers of unwed daughters voyaged from distant lands unto their doorsteps, for they knew the widower and his eldest-born were the most eligible passage to the riches of Erebor.

"Da," Sigrid called once she was sure it was safe to approach the house. She noticed the flag was at half mast, swaying grimly in remembrance of the blood bath.

"Sigrid!" Bard gasped, his gaze flicking towards the direction where the nobleman had left, "You are pale as a ghost, my child. Come in and sit by the fire."

Sigrid let her mind wander to the old hearth waiting inside the house, its dancing flames would be a welcoming change to the damp and cold air outside. She tried not to shiver.

"No, Da." She set down the washing basket by the door before looking up, "Old Cayne's little one has been poorly for a fortnight yet, they fear the shadows hold her, Da. I promised to visit in the morn, I shall tarry no more."

"Make haste," said Bard quietly as he draped a worn shawl around his eldest-born, "Do not to linger about after sundown."

"Yes, Da," she embraced him.

The door fell shut, and the ghostly wind wailed as the sky darkened.

* * *

"Lady Sigrid...-"

"Just Sigrid, sir."

"Sigrid," the nobleman sighed, looking uncomfortable as he eyed her ragged garb and unkempt hair, "I trust you know why I am here, thus a preamble would be unnecessary..."

"Indeed, sir."

They were walking along the edge of the market which bordered a great forest behind Dale. Sigrid's visit to Old Cayne's family had been welcomed, for the family was relieved to learn the child had merely come down with a cold. Upon leaving the house they thanked her, and a certain eavesdropping nobleman realised then that this pale creature with honey brown eyes was the Lady Sigrid he pursued. So pursue her he did, until he finally caught up with the maiden who moved like a silent shadow on the edge of the woods.

"-...cept my proposal then, Lady Sigrid?"

She was then shaken out of her reverie. Sigrid sigh, and repeated the same words she had said to the last Baron who came after her, and his cousin before him.

"M'Lord... I cannot thank you enough for your most gracious offer, but I fear this hollow shell stood before you would make neither a good wife nor the Lady of the house. I am but a common thing, sir. I can neither sing nor dance, and my harsh voice knows not the words to please your guests ears."

"That can be rectified," he proclaimed, and reached out to grasp her arm. Sigrid's eyes widened in bewilderment, not believing a man of such noble birth to be so daring in his actions.

"You shall wear the finest furs in the kingdom and drink from goblets of gold..." he leaned in to whisper in her ear, his grip slid down to her hand, halting Sigrid in her steps. "My serving maids will worship your body with scented oil and warm baths of rose petals, and weave beads of diamonds and gems into your hair... In time, my dear Lady Sigrid, these-" he grasped her palms with both hands and looked her in the eye, "These rough flesh will smoothen like a Lady's true."

It was as if he had branded burning iron on her, and so Sigrid turned to him and laughed coldly, the quiet wind carrying her voice away into the forest behind them.

"My Lord, for all the gold in Erebor I must decline!" she cried, "My hands and heart belong to the rivers and lakes that flow through these lands. My joy lies not in gems nor fineries but in seeing hope in my kindred's weary eyes. Keep your diamonds and your furs, sir, I am no subject of such flimsy dreams!"

Then she beheld in terror as the nobleman's features melted away into a horrible sneer. Sigrid tried to wring her hands out of his, but the vice-like grip only clamped down harder, and she was hurled against a tree with a sharp thud. Sigrid gasped and collapsed against it, pain exploding behind her eyes.

"This is how you would have it, then?" he spat, "The daughter of the Dragon Slayer, so high and noble, would decline my kind offer for these hope forsaken lands! You wretched and foul thing!" he fumed, "Is this what you would say to your savior?"

"I am Sigrid of Esgaroth!" she cried, "I have seen a war while you dined from your golden plates with your mistresses. I need not a savior, I belong with my people!"

In a flash, he lunged and forward with a roar and clamped one hand around her throat. Sigrid choked, trepidation filled her eyes as she saw his other hand raised high, preparing to strike. She turned away and closed her eyes, resigning herself to the fate of an oncoming blow...

A blow which never came.

Seconds passed, and Sigrid gingerly lifted open an eyelid, but the sight before her made her jaws go slack and her eyes wide.

A ray of sunlight had broken through the grey clouds, and now shone upon a striking, tall figure who towered over her and her captor. He was donned in dark flowing robes and a velvet cloak of deep maroon which came down to shield his face. His strong hand effortlessly formed an impossibly tight grip on the man's wrist.

"Loosen your hand or lose it." The command was simple, and yet effective, for the moment the words were uttered Sigrid felt her man's grip slackened and fell away. She slumped against the tree trunk, fighting to breath. Her mysterious rescuer graciously lent down to help her up, his fingers on her arms were gentle, unlike the dead grip she saw mere seconds ago.

"Who are you!"

The nobleman regained his senses and drew out his sword, pointing it at the cloaked figure who stood a head taller than him. Their commotion had now drawn a large audience from the market place. The people of Dale formed a circle a distance away, their faces were grim and etched with worry, but nobody dared move a muscle.

"How dare you command the Stewart of the House...-"

The tall figure threw his hood back, and there! His striking golden locks shone in the sun! The whole marketplace gaped in awe for there stood the magnificent Elven-Lord, his robes blowing in the breeze and his features regal, Esgaroth's very own savior.

The man backed away a few steps and let his sword drop with a clang. The Stewart of Men did not know the otherworldly being stood before him, but Thranduil's piercing eyes which commanded all invited no quarrel.

"I shall be the Lady's escort, Ecthelion of Gondor. Your presence here is no longer required," The King's voice was colder than the ice beneath their feet.

Just then, a horn sounded and somebody cried.

"All hail, Thranduil, King of he Woodland Realm!"

They all fell down on their knees, but the Elven-Lord's arm around Sigrid kept her standing up, leaning against his chest. Sigrid tried to steal a glance at his face, but her height would not permit it. Not far behind the trees, she spied a great silver-white steed standing by.

Oh yes, of course. The memory of the fallen elk came back to her, and Sigrid suddenly felt very weary in the King's arms.

"Come..." Thranduil murmured, as he turned his back to the crowd and guided her through the rows of trees. Sigrid never looked back, but she heard a voice from the crowd addressing the nobleman of less than noble intentions calling out from behind them.

"Aye... I do believe 'ee meant you migh'ta wan'a bugger off now sir."

And then...

"Scram, filth!"

* * *

"Thank you... Your Grace," Sigrid said, as the Elven-King helped her onto the back of his silver-white stallion before mounting himself up behind her. Thranduil's smile was cold, though she did not see it.

"Bowman's daughter... Look upon yourself, child. Why invite yourself into the company of his kind?"

"He was my suitor, Sire. The choice was not mine to make."

The King did not flinch, but she could feel his strong body stiffening up a little.

The forest path widened, and soon the three found themselves in a little clearing. Sigrid thought she could hear music lulling softly in the distance, but it could just be the sound of the rolling stream.

"What ails you, My Lord?"

"How would you know me?"

"Your face, Sire."

"You do not see my face."

"But I did, and I hear your voice. It sings of sorrow."

"Aye, my heart mourns those we lost yet, but it is something else you hear."

Sigrid allowed her eyes to fall shut and leaned against his strong form, for a while she was silent.

"I hear singing in the woods..." she finally said, "I had thought it to be the tricks of the senses, but they are there, whispering behind the trees... Voices as real as yours and mine. They grieve, Sire, they mourn for loved ones who have departed, yet I do not know the words."

"My people are in these woods," Thranduil's voice was low and quiet as he urged the steed on, towards where she did not know, "They chant names of companions lost and buried in these lands after the Great Battle."

The mournful chants of the elves became clearer as they approached a denser part of the forest. Sigrid could see some silvery shadows standing solemn beneath the branches, still as sentinels of carven stones, and as beautiful and sad as the last light of day.

Thranduil dismounted, and reached up to help her down. Their eyes met and lingered for a moment, before he turned and lead her gently by the hand deep into the woods. The songs of the fair folks became more distinct with every step she took, and soon they came upon a clearing glowing in pale, blue light, where hundreds upon hundreds of wood elves formed a great circle and lamented their lost ones with a hymn.

They were hidden behind the trees and unnoticed. How much time had gone by while they stood there and watched, she did not know. Sigrid finally looked up at the Lord of the grieving folks who still held her hand, and soon his silver blue eyes met hers.

"What of yourself, Sire?" she felt words escaping her lips, "Will you not chant with your people?"

Thranduil only smiled down at her with what seemed like pity.

"My dear child," he said, leant down to place a kiss on her hand, "I would stand here today and a thousand years more rooted to this spot like an old  _huhorn_  were I to remember all those dear to me who have passed."

He turned, and lead Sigrid away from the enchanting circle. She let her eyes linger back to the standing figures in the dim, blue light for a little more, before following him.

"Does it entrance you?" the King asked.

"I will not lie, I am still a little captivated yet."

"We the undying walk amongst these woods..." Thranduil whispered, and halted his steps to take her hands into his. His piercing blue eyes bore into hers, luring her in. "All who look upon us fall under our spell... Tell me, are you bewitched, daughter of Men?"

Sigrid gazed upon his fair features as if in a trance. Unknowingly, she reached a hand out to touch his face, running her cold fingers over his cheekbones, feeling age and sadness running deep under his marble white skin. Thranduil did not protest.

She slowly leant in closer and looked him in eye, a knowing smile dancing on her lips.

"My Lord... Why do you seek to seduce a simple mortal?"

The corners of Thranduil's lips curled up.

"I do not seduce, such triviality is a human deed."

"Aye Sire, for you are indeed above all that."

"The dwarves would not toil away so deep beneath the Earth had they known to mine silver form your tongue."

"You flatter me, My Lord..."

* * *

It was not until the silver-white stallion had taken them to the edge of the forest near her home, and Sigrid turned back to face the Elven-Lord for the last time, did they speak again.

"Run home, child, lest your father worries."

"Your Highness." She dropped into a curtsy and replied before turning to walk away. But as Sigrid was approaching the last row of trees, his voice halted her.

"You will not meet with any more suitors."

She stopped, and let a smile dance on her lips. Sigrid did not turn back but she let the Winter breeze carry her voice.

"I make no such promises, Sire."

"Child, how much longer until you let your heart know."

So she turned to him finally, and addressed the Elven-Lord, loud and clear.

"My Lord," She met his eyes, "I will know it when to you I am a child no more."

With that, she left. And Thranduil stood there, stunned, letting his gaze follow the daughter of Men back into her world. At last, a trace of a smile graced the King's lips, and Thranduil whispered.

"Until next time, Sigrid of Esgaroth."


	3. The Chase

_I prithee, tell me_...  _Who are the grey elves?_

_They who wander in the voids of sleepless dreams... They who linger in the mortal world of sentiments... Chained and sunken by the weight of grief, tied forever to the memories of their fallen kins, unable to complete the Great Journey._

_Speak not in riddles, I pray. Why do the undying walk amongst us?_

_Had they sailed to the West, we shan't have lived. For they are the unsung heroes of our age who surrendered their lives to end the dark days._

_It is still dark yet, Sigrid._

_Yes, for evil still lurks within the shadows, but 'tis Spring now Tilda. And soon, the flowers will bloom again..._

A quanting pole sank slowly into the deep dark lake of Esgaroth, as a small barge waded its way silently through the cold mist that lingered atop Lake Town's ominous waters. The steerer skilfully guided the weathered barge through the remaining wreckage that floated on the surface. The desolate Lake Town was quiet as Death's own whisper, ensnaring those doomed to enter, ready to lunge forward and claim them for His own.

If only His guests today feared death at all.

"Can you take us across the western sea to the undying land too?"

"On this poor thing? You shall have to help me steer, little one."

Her sister made a face from where she sat in the front of the barge.

"Nay, I shan't want to leave Da and Bain to themselves."

Sigrid smiled softly, and steered the barge towards open water.

Tilda had begged to come visit their old home, and Sigrid could not deny her. They set out before midday, but it was not yet afternoon when darkness and thick mists set down, turning figures into spectres, ghosting over everything in their wake. Neither of them could see five yards ahead, but Sigrid knew these waters like the back of her hand. Though the town was wont to change with the calamity set upon by Smaug, for where houses were now stood charred wood structures still crumbling down at every turn or so, no one knew this watery sepulchre better than the Bargeman's eldest-born.

"Did the Elven-King tell you much about his kind?"

Sigrid sighed.

After encounter by the market, the whole town turned to whisper amongst one another of the Elven Lord and the Bowman's daughter. Some were even bold enough to throw her sidelong glances and whispered that any maiden who went traipsing in the woods with an elf would have all but lost her head to him. The words fortunately had not gotten to Bard, but before Sigrid could quash the ill-talk, it was Tilda who was quicker to dispel any such rumours.

'Listen up, all of you! Have you not seen all the fair folks who rode to war with their King?' Bard's youngest climbed atop an old barrel and addressed the wide-eyed, whispering congregation. The crowd went quiet at her words.

'Good,' Tilda cried, 'Then you will have seen no living soul fairer! My sister does not compare, and by my love for Sigrid, she would not steal from him a second glance. I am but a child, aunts and uncles, I mean not to insult, but you will know that a politic exists between our lands. The Elven King rescued the Dragon Slayer's daughter. A kind gesture, I say! And I tell you he earned a name in Da's good book!'

It was not the entire truth, but the people of Dale did not need to know, and Sigrid did not complain. Bard was still weary and distrustful of the King of Mirkwood.

'What business did the Elven King want with my daughter?' Bard slammed his fists onto their dinner table when she arrived home late that evening, "Tell me, child!"

'He wanted no business with me, Da,' Sigrid said calmly, "His only dealings with Dale concern you. If you came upon his son failing, would you not see him to safety as an ally would?"

Bard sighed and slumped against his chair.

"He took you into the woods," her father pointed out.

"Aye, he did. He brought me home to you."

"And he did you no wrong, no transgression-"

"He would not," Sigrid lifted her chin, "He is no Ecthalion, Steward of Gondor."

Bard rubbed his neck and groaned, it was long before the ruler of Dale spoke again.

"Then I am glad you are safe and well, my daughter," he reached out and drew her into his arms, "For if anything were to happen to you, any of you," Bard rested his gaze on her two younger siblings, "I would not be able to live with myself."

Neither would she. Sigrid thought. For all she was cold and calm, Sigrid was the daughter of Bard, and she would tore open the gates of hell for any living soul who did them wrong.

Sigrid rested the quanting pole and let the barge float by itself for a little, for they had neared their destination. Tilda was saying something about elves again, but Sigrid had not the heart to respond right now.

'Do not defy the Steward family of Gondor,' Da's words still echoed in her mind, 'These men hold grudges.'

Since that day, Tilda had begged her to tell her more of the elves, for she had learnt of her sister's encounter with the dream-like chants in the woods. Every night when she tugged her to bed, Sigrid would recall as much as she remembered from the tales their mother had told her when she was young. Tales Tilda never had the chance to hear.

"The Firstborn..." Sigrid's voice was a whisper echoing within the silent mists, "Whose music should awaken them from 'neath the Great Lake but Eru's own? They who rose and dwelled in the starlight, sang forgotten tunes to the twilight sky filled with stars, for neither the Sun nor the Moon were yet born..."

"What are ye two lasses doing all by yeself back 'ere?"

A hoarse, accented drone snapped Sigrid out of her story. Both sisters turned and peered through the thick mist at a shadow standing ashore. Finally, Sigrid was able to make out who the silhouette belonged to.

"Marwin!" she cried, and sank the quanting pole into the quagmire beneath to stop the barge, "How do you fare?"

"N'ah bad," the old man groaned as he pulled on the reins of the many horses he was holding in his hands, "Only me ol' bones... just taken this lot back from a grazing in tha' meadow o'er there. Well fed them lot."

Sigrid tied the barge to a rotting wood pole that held up a dilapidated bridge, as Tilda hopped overboard to greet their Da's old friend who had helped raise them before the dragon came. Sigrid still had a few carven wooden toys that the old carpenter made back in the days tucked away in her trunk. It was pure luck they had survived the fall of Lake Town at all.

Soon, they were off the waters and on land. Tilda was chattering away with old Marwin whilst Sigrid silently trailed after them, two of the horses' reins in her hands.

The forsaken town was changed, for time had passed, as time was wont. Sigrid was glad they had not made it to their old home for she dared not dream of what they would have found. Time was a cruel thing, as it was natural for mortals to suffer from its passage.

They were walking on an earthen path with the meadow to their right, and the sun was sleeping quietly somewhere behind the looming grey clouds. The earth was still frozen beneath her feet, and though it was Spring Sigrid saw no flower amongst the brown pasture.

Hours passed as they walked, and evening was almost upon them when Tilda's chattering died down and Marwin finally turned to her as if he finally remembered something.

"...Your da' bid me ta mend 'is old bow." The old man stopped walking and he looked her in the eye, Sigrid halted her steps as well. Marwin left Tilda to play by a hedge alone and walked over to her, fumbling for a moment with a deep pouch hanging down the saddle of a midnight black mare before pulling out an old yew bow and a quiver full of arrows.

"There, good as new. Tell 'im them arrows be my gift," the old man laughed and nodded at the yew bow, "Took a while mending hat big ol' giant. Just pulled tha' last notch right 'bout when this lot were done grazin' in the morn. Not much use anymore eh? Now tha' the dragon's dead an' gone. Here, take it lass."

Sigrid accepted the great yew bow and the arrows with a nod, slinging them over her shoulders as she said thank you to the old man.

"This is where I must say good-bye, Marwin," she said, smiling up at him, "We shouldn't tarry too long, Da worries. I bid you send our love to Mariam and Josh."

A lone scarecrow in the field stood and watched them forlornly, its grey and worn clothes drooping from its spectre thin frame, its head hung low. The old thing stood atop a mound Sigrid remembered was where they buried the dead. Old Marwin's youngest born did not live through the last winter, perhaps he was there, too.

She turned back in time just to see the suffering father wiping his eyes with his worn sleeves, Sigrid dropped her gaze.

"Aye, my dear lass..." Marwin mumbled, "I shall go visit ye in Dale some day if me old bones and joints don't complain...-"

Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream tore through the silent air, freezing her blood!

"Sigrid! SIGRID!"

Sigrid whipped around immediately at the sound of her sibling's voice. There! By that old willow, two tall, dark figures held a kicking and screaming Tilda. A piece of filthy cloth came over her mouth and her screams were muffled as ropes came around her. They heaved her onto the back of one grey stallions and both took off as fast as lightning. The blood in Sigrid's ears rushed so loud she could hear nor see naught.

In a flash, the bowman's daughter flung herself atop the midnight black mare and knocked the stirrups, making the horse neigh, prancing high with its two front legs kicking into the air.

"Make haste, Marwin!" she cried, "Send word to my father that Tilda and I had gone to stay with you and Mariam. I shall bring her back before the morrow. Speak none of this, I beseech you!"

Before the bewildered old carpenter could say anymore, the black mare neighed loudly and broke into a full gallop after the two stallions that left a trail of dust lingering about the mists and the darkening sky. She would hunt them down.

* * *

The deafening cold wind rushed by her, cutting her skin like thousands of icy knives, but Sigrid rode on. The midnight mare proved her worth to be a sprinter, and kept up the full gallop for what seemed like hours, but it was Sigrid's own heart that was thumping faster than the hooves at this moment. Her soft brown eyes focused with fierce determination like a calm before the unleashing of hell on the two grey steeds in the distance. Sigrid was almost thrown back and off the horse when a thorny branch slammed against her face, digging deep into her skin, drawing blood, but it was not enough to diminished the fire that blazed within, driving her on to wreak damnation upon the riders who bore the seals of Gondor.

_Fly as fast as your wings would take you! Run and cower, fools!_

Her heart cried. For they could ride South until all fell to their knees before the doors of Barad-dûr, and she would damn them thrice still.

Hours passed, night fell, and she was closing in on them, but suddenly, the two riders and horses in front of her took a sharp turn and disappeared into a dense row of trees on their right. Sigrid pulled hard on the reins and drew the mare to an alarming halt, before turning in to face an old road that lead into a deep, dark forest.

_Men-i-Naugrim..._ It whispered with menace.  _Men-i-Naugrim...!_

A forest that reeked with the smell of death.

_Evil lurked here..._  It laughed coldly.  _Enter at thy own peril, mortal!_

Tall canopies loomed overhead like an archway that lead into a catacomb. Two sentinels made of midnight black carven stones stood guarding the entrance, promising an impending doom to trespassers, inviting them in for a sweet, soft death at the hands of their Maker.

Sigrid lingered a second longer to calm her breaths, before she urged the mare on, and forward they flew straight into woods!

The dank forest air was thin, and soon the branches crowded in, suffocating her, slamming against her, tearing at her hair and clothes. In utter darkness Sigrid could see naught ahead, but she trusted the dark mare and her nose to guide them along the forest path at an unrivalled speed. It was chilly, and the cold air scraped past her cheeks numbed with frostbites like blades. They were closer now, she could feel it, she could hear the distinct sounds of horse hooves not far ahead...

Then suddenly they found themselves in an opening where moonlight shone through, and there! She could see her targets hesitating, not knowing which fork in the road to take, and this was the moment when Sigrid of Esgaroth pressed her advantage.

She swung the great yew bow down from her shoulder, swiftly placed an arrow onto the rest and drew hard on the taut string, aiming a shot at her prey.

The force of the great bow nearly threw her off the back of the mare. Her targets were alerted to her actions now for she had missed! But before they could move, Sigrid loaded another arrow as quick as lightning and drew the string, this time far beyond her aiming point, her arms quivered in protest at the sheer weight of the bow.

But she was the bowman's daughter, and her aim was true.

A piercing scream echoed through the forest as one of the perpetrators found an arrow pierced right through his shoulder. A second cry of pain followed shortly, and Sigrid was shocked to find that that it was her own. She had raised the great yew bow yet again and aimed for the second man, but as the arrow left its string she felt her muscles tore and screamed, and a cry ripped through the throat. The arrow which was aimed at the remaining man's shoulder instead found its way right through his heart. He had not the chance to cry out.

Sigrid stumbled off the black mare and towards the limp form tied to the back of a grey horse that was her sister. In a matter of minutes, Tilda fell to the dusty ground, and Sigrid collapsed, desperately undoing the bounds with one hand.

"Tilda! TILDA!" Sigrid cried as she shook her, but the little one had a bruise to her forehead and seemed to have been knocked out by a blow. Sigrid quickly undid the filthy cloth that tied her mouth and sagged in relief as she could feel soft breathing against her wrist.

In this moment of vulnerability, she could not see a figure rising up behind her from where he was lain. With an arrow embedded in his shoulder, the man of Gondor raised his blade, and by the time Sigrid could hear the rustling sound and turned back, it was too late.

Her sharp cry ripped through the woods as the blade was pierced through her middle, and a second blow came down through her thigh. Sigrid felt the world spinning into a dark blur as pain blinded her, but she forced her eyes opened and persevered. The only voice screaming in her mind was her own, she knew she could not let him get to Tilda. And in a moment of sheer madness, Sigrid twisted from his grip, and kicked against his wounded elbow. The man let go of his knife with a howl and Sigrid did not spare herself a moment of hesitation before she grabbed it and ran it through him.

Then everything went black.

* * *

The sound of a few light footsteps flittered through the forest's clearing, quieter than whispers of the leaves. Then one of the owners started speaking in Elvish.

_It is a child of Men..._

_Two of them._  Another voice joined in, sneering.  _And two men. What dirty business had these wretched creatures in our forest?_

_Hold your tongue!_ Haldir's voice was stern.  _Legolas! Come hither!_

A fourth voice soon joined them.

_These are the daughters of Bard!_  Legolas cried. _I know not of these men of Gondor - but hold! This is Ecthalion, son of the old Steward, Lord Turgon_.  _Perhaps time has come for the downfall of this noble line after all._

The Elven prince then turned towards the two guards and Haldir.

"I did not expect to be greeted upon my brief return with this. Eíldan, Idréd! See to it that the corpse is disposed of and the Steward's son is returned to Gondor with a message." Legolas addressed the two guards who moved to work swiftly, before turning to Haldir.

"My dear friend, it grieves my heart to ask you of such. But the human child suffers greatly, I fear she will not live till the morn if we tarry, I must bring her to our healer. Yet, the little one...-"

"You wish for me to bring her to Dale," Haldir said and Legolas nodded, "Do not let your heart sadden, my kin, I shall see to it that she is well cared for and her father's mind is at ease."

_Hanon le, mellon nin._

* * *

Late had grown the hours, and yet the Lord of the Woodland Realm sat atop the high throne in his cavernous hall. A crown of wildflowers rested atop his fair head and Thranduil's gaze flicked sharply towards the opening doors.

If the King was surprised at the sudden appearance of his son who now bowed before his throne, he made none of it known.

"Mae govanen, ada."

"Legolas." Thranduil nodded in acknowledgement.

"I brought word from Rivendell," Legolas breached the subject, knowing the King did not withstand unnecessary talk, "Lord Elrond feared the dark Lord is summoning evil creatures from all over Middle Earth - orcs, wargs, goblins and the Men of Harad - to unite with him in the Black Land. He believes the Dark Lord is rallying an army, ada."

"Indeed?" Thranduil arched an eyebrow, "Does Lothlórien know?"

"The Lady Galadriel will be informed once Haldir brings words from the meeting," Legolas said and shook his head, "Alas, he had accompanied me to our realm, but I fear that Lothlórien will have to wait yet for the news, for Haldir rides to Dale."

"Speak."

"Ada, it is but a little chance encounter in the woods," Legolas looked up, "I do not believe it would interest-"

"If anything moves within this forest," Thranduil's voice was calm, "I will know of it."

"Two children of Men. It seemed they had a skirmish with the Steward family of Gondor-"

"Their names, Legolas?"

"-the little one is being brought back to her father in Dale by Haldir as we speak, the elder sibling, well, she-"

"I will not ask again..."

"Why do you care, ada?" Legolas looked up and met the King's eyes with curiosity, "I do not believe I know you to care for anything that happen beyond our realm."

"If they are the Dragon Slayer's children as I know they are, then I must see to it that they are well received," Thranduil's face remained a mask of indifference, but his gaze was piercing, "Had I not taught you of the power of allies, Legolas?"

"Indeed you have," Legolas rose from his position, "I found her on the forest floor, bleeding and worn. The Lady Sigrid is with our healers, ada. Let your mind be at ease."

"You are dismissed."

The elven prince made towards the doors and opened them, but before Legolas could slip off and disappear into the night, Thranduil's voice carried his final words down from the lonely throne.

"It is good to have you back, my son."

The elven prince smiled.

* * *

_Your Grace._ The elven healer dropped to his knees upon the entrance of the King. _To what do I owe you this late night visit?_

_The mortal_. Thranduil said, his cold blue eyes searching the vast healing quarter on the eastern wing of the palace.  _How fares she?_

_My Lord?_

_She is the daughter of Bard the Dragon Slayer. I will see that she is recovered and well_.

The healer bowed.

_She suffered greatly, Your Grace, but the potions shall work their remedy. The daughter of Men will last the night, Sire._

_Good. You have done well, Lendar. Go now, I shall send in another healer to care for our patient tonight._

_Yes, Sire._

The door to the quarter closed with a dull thud, and the King strode silently towards a bed made of intertwining vines where upon lay the daughter or Bard, her chest rising and falling slowly for she was in a deep sleep.

He studied her face which was marked and bloodied, but the wounds had been seen to, her hair which was still damp from being cleaned, and her eyes... Her honey brown eyes which shone like the soft morning light, but were now shielded by her tender eyelids for its owner was deep in slumber...

The King's fingers traced her delicate features, his eyes studying her face.  _Fair she was, and pure, like a gentle dew drop atop a rose... But also as harsh and fierce like the thorns on its stem._

His thumb brushed over her lips, chapped with wounds, but still soft and pliant under his touch. He let his eyes roam her face, delighting in her sweetness. Her soft tresses fell about her face, how fragile she looked now... He mused as his fingers found their way through the soft curls.  _And how young and fair..._

As if in a stupor, Thranduil slowly leant down... His face drawn towards hers and his hands came to rest on either side of her elfin face. The King's eyes roamed her beautiful countenance and came to stop at her slightly parted lips; it was a gaze filled with resignation, with defeat, for he had fallen prey to a cruel enchantment . Thranduil closed his eyes as he surrendered himself to a doomed fate of Tinúviel, bound forevermore to hither side of the shores...

_The shores..._

The sounds of the waves that echoed in the distance immediately snapped Thranduil out of his trance, and the King gasped, quickly retreating a few steps, putting distance between them. His chest heaved, his eyes wide and fixing on the delicate being laid down before him like a sweet sacrifice...

...A sacrifice for which he was the victim.

The Elven Lord's cold blue eyes looked at Sigrid for but a moment longer, before Thranduil turned on his heels and strode out of the healing quarters, dark robes flowing after him, never once looking back.

_All roses had deadly thorns._

* * *


	4. Fëanturi

Aman...

_The whispers of the waves washed over her skin like a warm caress of a mother, they beckoned for her to follow, to cross over to Eressëa._

_Aman... They cooed, gently guiding her into the water and towards the burning glow of the setting sun. Sigrid could feel the grains of sand beneath her bare feet and the waves washing about her ankles, and she breathed in the sea wind filled to the brim with nostalgia, a longing of those stranded, and the calling of ones who had passed._

_They were summoning her, for she was one of them._

_She closed her eyes and let herself fall into the embrace of the silken currents that rose up to welcome her into their arms... And Sigrid felt calm, for it was the warmth from the hearth at home that folded around her, guiding her, telling her to follow. She knew they were taking her to the west, carrying her from the shores across the Sundering Seas like one dead and gone. She would be home, at long last._

_Suddenly, she felt a strong hand gently closing around her own, halting her from the great journey. Sigrid did not know whose it was, but she knew it was meant for her. For suddenly the calling of the Blessed Realm melted away into a tune so sorrowful that she could not bear to lend her heart to it... Not when a sweet promise of life was holding her true and dear, entreating her to stay. There was still time, it said, time for so much more._

_Now the wisps of smoke around her felt so fragile, so flimsy compared to the hold of flesh and life that was coaxing her to return. But oh upon these lands there were only pain and death! The waves cried out to her, and Sigrid could feel their tears running into the Great Sea, drowning lives and sinking lands whose names were all but lost and forgotten, but she was pulled away from it and found herself ashore once more._

_Sigrid gasped in the cool air, briefly catching the faint scent of wildflowers, before she finally surrendered to a deep sleep..._

* * *

A soft ray of morning light shone through a window in the healing quarter. The east wing of the palace was high above ground, and in this early hour was quiet and serene. The first glimmer of the sun gently filtered into the airy room, where hundreds upon hundreds of blooming roses climbed along the plain stone walls.

By the window sat a bed made of intertwining vines, where a frail figure of a young maiden lay, unperturbed by the soft morning light that was gently caressing her elfin, pale face. Her breathing was light, almost indiscernible, as if a breeze of wind that rolled through the window could easily sweep away her last.

But her guest knew better.

Thranduil's cold blue eyes scanned the room, before coming to rest on its single occupant, and he strode towards her, long gown of midnight blue embroidered with two silver trees trailing after him. The uninvited visitor bent down to pick up the crown of wildflowers which lay forgotten on the floor beside her bed. It had fallen off in its owner's haste to leave the night before. The King looked down to examine the royal coronet in his hands, before letting his gaze harden again as he chanced a glance at her.

She looked almost serene, as if she belonged there on the bed of wild vines, like Nimrodel had fallen asleep by the river Gilrain... Thranduil closed his fingers around the crown and turned it into the folds his robes, before reaching out to lift the beige cover that had fallen off her shoulder back into its place. The back of his hand lingered on her cheek, but suddenly The King's brows knitted as Sigrid's face started contorting in discomfort. Her lips parted but there were no words, she gasped with her eyes still closed. She struggled to breath- she was drowning!

Immediately, his hand took a protective hold of her small ones and Thranduil knelt down beside the bed. His other hand came to rest lightly on her forehead, but it seemed the warm sun ray that shone on her was of no avail, for Sigrid's skin was pallid and cold as beads of sweat broke out on her face, a small whimper escaped her lips.

"What nightmares trouble you, young one..." Thranduil murmured as he studied her face. Then, the distant sound of crashing waves that had been echoing in the back of the King's mind for over a thousand years suddenly became louder, more distinct, and Thranduil's hold on her hand became a tight grip as he narrowed his eyes.

"'Tis not yet your time, daughter of Men. Do not let the whispers of the waves enchant you..."

A deep echoing laughter that only Thranduil could hear sounded from far, far away. The crownless King's eyes darkened in recognition, as memories of a fateful night came crashing ashore and carried away with it the price Mandos claimed for his own.

"Away with you, Lord of the Halls!" Thranduil seethed in anger and pulled her frail body to his chest, but even then, Mandos's laughter still echoed hauntingly in the distance. Sigrid's head drooped into the crook of his neck as she was draped over his lap, and the Elven Lord drew a protective arm around her shoulders, holding her still.

Her skin was cold against his and her breathing was light as feather against his neck; Thranduil absentmindedly brushed the soft tresses that fell about her face behind her ears. He then saw it, a bead of tear was rolling down her pale face... And the Elven-King impulsively reached out to wipe it away. As he did so, the crown fell from his robes with a dull clang, and the airy room was immediately filled with the fragrance of the sweetest wildflowers.

He heard a gasp, and Thranduil's eyes darted back to her face once more. Sigrid drew a sharp breath as her body tensed for a moment then relaxed, and she fell slump against him, drawn again into endless stream of illusions and dreams.

A warm sun ray finally broke through the clouds, and the scent of the woodland flowers danced around the two of them as if to celebrate a new beginning. The song of a thrush sounded in the distance and green forest beyond the window seemed to rejoice that it was Spring at last.

Thranduil's fingers tenderly stroked her hair as he gently lowered Sigrid down onto the bed of vines and turned towards the rising sun. One blue iris, followed by a sweet violet, and a star-lily... One by one, all the blossoms in the woodland crown were gathered into a thin bouquet of wildflowers and placed behind her pillow.

When a gush wild wind rushed in and Sigrid's eyes finally fluttered open, the King of Barren Crown was no more.

* * *

"You did not come here to see my son to safety," Thranduil stated simply, peering down at a lone figure standing before his throne in the vast hall of ancient trees and running rivulets and waterfalls. Warm sunlight filtered into the hall, lighting up the Woodland Realm, but the King's face remained hidden in the shadow of his throne.

The figure slowly glanced up at the Elven Lord with a calm demeanor, his hood fell back, revealing dark golden hair a pair of smoky blue eyes that not give way to any emotions. The elf's gaze was unwavering as he answered the King of Mirkwood.

"Legolas is a dear friend of mine, My Lord. Would I not...-"

"You will loosen your tongue, Haldir of Lothlórien," A hint of unconcealed irritation slipped into Thranduil's voice as he threw the younger elf a sideway glance, "Or lose it."

Haldir bowed.

"I come bearing something from Lady Galadriel to you, Sire."

"So the purpose of your journey was not to the council of Elrond."

"It would appear not."

_For the lady of the Golden Wood saw all, heard all, and knew all..._

Thranduil's lips curved into a sneer as he King leaned against his throne, staff in hand.

"And yet you spent a quarter of a night riding to Dale..." Thranduil's voice took on a haughty lilt, "Do not tell me that was also your Lady's bidding."

Haldir only smiled diplomatically as he dipped his head low.

"Her ladyship sent me to attend  _your_  council, Sire."

The drumming of Thranduil's fingers on the head of the staff suddenly halted, and the King's cold, piercing eyes darted to Haldir with a threatening glare.

"And what lead the Lady Galadriel to believe I will hold a council?" Thranduil's voice was icy.

"Because you do not have the choice."

"Speak."

Haldir's smoky blue eyes met the Elven-Lord's own without so much a trace of apprehension.

"If the dark force spreads once more... The world of Men will be the first to fall. When that time comes, will you tolerate that, O'King?"

"What goes on beyond this immortal realm is none of my concern."

"It may not have been, but its is now... is it not?" Haldir's voice was smooth as the midnight blue silken robes that flowed around Thranduil, "For you may nurture a rose with a protective hand now, but one day it shall have to return to the soil of its home... and when that day comes, can you willingly part with it, Sire? Knowing you have sent your rose to meet its doom...-"

SMACK!

In a flash, the Elven King had come to stand on level ground, and the back of Thranduil's hand slapped across the Marchwarden of Lothlórien's face. Haldir's face turned with the sheer force of the impact and red beads of blood trailed from the corner of his lips where a ring had struck. But the Galadhrim warrior held his head high, meeting the gaze of the Elven King who stood a head taller than him.

"You dare-!"

"Shall I deliver the Lady Galadriel's message, My Lord?"

A small ray of light that filtered through the roof of the hall illuminated the wrath burning in Thranduil's eyes. The King and the Marchwarden stood in stalemate in the centre of the vast hall, a painted picture of rivaling differences. For as much as the fabrics that made up the Elven-Lord's robes were rich and elegant, Haldir's cloak was misty and fine, draping around him like a shroud of smoke.

_"A day may come when the King of Eryn Lasgalen shall wear a barren crown. Then flowers will bloom in the garden of Lord Lórien once more, and the seas shall cry in sadness for Thranduil Son of Oropher shall surrender to the waters of the Lake."_

Silence filled the great hall, and Thranduil's silver blue eyes no longer burned with anger but a quiet contemplation, it was long before the Elven King Spoke again.

"Last I recall, the garden of Lórien belonged to the Lady of Lothlórien, not its Lord."

Haldir bowed deeply.

"My Lord, It is not Lord Celeborn of whom her ladyship spoke... but the  _Lord Lórien_  himself."

The Elven King's lips pressed into a thin line in recognition of the name. The sound of Mandos's laughter still echoed far far away, but there was one other whom the King of Mirkwood despised more than the Master of Doom...

"Eryn Lasgalen... How came she by such a name?"

"Green Wood the Great shall prosper, Sire," Haldir's voice was a whisper as the light from above began to fade, "That is, if you trust your heart to make it so..."

* * *

Red roses.

Sigrid's eyes fluttered opened. A cool breeze flushed in from the window that stood by her bed, and the last light of day bathed the walls of stones in the room with a warm glow. Her limbs ached painfully, and the wounds in the middle and thigh throbbed, but they were the least of her concern.

"Where is my sister?" she asked.

"She is well," An old voice sounded behind her, "She was taken back to your father, frightened but otherwise unharmed."

Sigrid sagged with relief. She looked up at the ceiling where red roses in full bloom climbed along the cracks in the stones, knowing that it was not the scent of those blood red blossoms that permeated the room.

"Do you not wonder where you yourself are, daughter of men?" The voice sounded again, and Sigrid could hear the rustling of fabrics and liquid being poured from behind her.

"I believe I owe my life to you, and for that I thank you."

"Nay..." The healer appeared by her side, holding a smoking goblet, "It is not I whom you should thank, but prince Legolas."

"Then I am indeed in the Woodland Realm..." Sigrid said quietly as she accepted the goblet before pushing herself up to sit and obediently drank from it, "Did he bring me here?"

"Aye... Fate was with you, daughter of Men, for the prince chose the right hour to return, or you may have passed to the Halls had the night been grim."

"The Halls?" She echoed, setting the goblet down.

But the healer was gone.

Sigrid placed her palms down onto the bed of vines to anchor herself as she craned her neck back, turning around to see where the healer had gone. The room was empty, but as Sigrid turned back with a sigh, her hand brushed across something soft and delicate that lay by her pillow...

It was a tiny bouquet of wildflowers.

She picked it up with her fingers, and immediately the room fell under a spell of a deeply sweet fragrance... Sigrid breathed in, closing her eyes and relishing in the untamed scent of the woodland flowers. The bouquet's scent was familiar, somehow, as if she had known it not so long ago, but Sigrid could not quite place it...

Three light taps sounded on the door.

"Come in," she said, placing the flowers back where they previously lay, hidden beside her pillow, and drew the cover up to her chest once more.

The door creaked open, and upon seeing who had entered, Sigrid dipped her head low in greeting.

"I would curtsy and express my heartfelt gratitude, your highness, if I could."

The crown prince of the Woodland Realm smiled from where he stood. It may be a trick of the eye, but for a moment Sigrid thought that the evening sunlight that dimly lit the room seemed to glow a little warmer. Legolas strode easily towards her bedside.

"Nonsense, Sigrid. We are no strangers," he said softly and set a tray down on her bedside table, "It gladdens my heart to see that you are well. How fare you?"

"I am recovered," she replied and winced a little at the pain still throbbing in her middle and thigh where the knife had struck, "Only a little sore."

Legolas shook his head a muttered something about stubborn humans, but Sigrid could see that he was smiling. The elven prince uncovered the wooden tray he had carried in and lifted from it a steaming bowl of creamy soup which he offered to her, before setting himself down on a soft armchair which he had pulled up.

"I trust it would take more than a couple of knife wounds for you to let me help you take food."

"Or not," she said, ladling up a little of the bowls content in the round spoon before taking a sip, "It is not every day one receives such offer by the crown prince of Mirkwood himself. Only..." she peered at him questioningly, "Why?"

Legolas swung his legs over the armchair so he was sat facing her, a twinkle of laugher danced in his eyes.

"Your healer left in a haste to assure my companion of your condition, but I had to see for myself that you truly are fine."

"Why the haste?"

"Haldir rode to Dale last night with your sister, and I had to applaud him for returning without your father in tow. I could only imagine how worried Bard would be."

"Is he now to journey to Dale yet again with news that I have woken?"

"Aye."

"Then I must express my thank upon his return," Sigrid said thoughtfully as she set her spoon down. They sat in companionable silence for a while.

The sound little birds chirping outside drew Sigrid to the window once more. Cold wind flushed in as the last light of day was vanishing from the sky, and Sigrid drew the cover closer around herself as she felt the cool breeze on her skin. Legolas got up to close the window and lit a few candles around the room. When he returned, Sigrid was glancing up at the ceiling where the climbing roses rested; the fire from the hearth danced slowly, bathing the blood red flowers with its burning glow.

"My mother had a rose garden once..."

She turned to him. Shadows casted by the dancing flames flickered on his fair face, and suddenly Sigrid wanted to know what had happened.

"What kind of roses?"

"White ones," said Legolas, sitting down once more, his eyes peered out into the darkening sky, "Her garden was right below this window, but they used to grow everywhere in the palace, climbing up on pillars and trees, on walls and ceilings, their blooms were as beautiful as the first light in the sky... For hundred of years this forest was abound with the lovely fragrance... until one day they all shriveled and died."

Sigrid was silent as the prince trailed off, but Legolas's eyes finally sought hers and the elven prince smiled sadly.

"That night we returned, bloodied and war-torn, to find all the pure white blossoms of starlight had withered and fallen. They mourned the passing of their Queen it seemed..." Legolas's face darkened, "Then my father ordered for the gates to be shut, barricaded himself from the outside world, and no flowers ever bloomed again."

"...But then something strange happened," Legolas's voice was a whisper, and Sigrid studied his face carefully as the prince wove his tale. "Upon our return from the great battle at the gates of Erebor only a year or so ago, a sapling of a rose had grown right below this window in the Queen's garden, and upon it, was a single red rose in full bloom..."

He lay one finger on a blood-red rose that adorned her bedpost, gently stroking its fragile petal.

"Over the year, it grew and grew, until finally it climbed into this healing quarter and took it as its home. We had all thought the King would order the plant to be hacked away, but he did not," Legolas looked at the climbing roses in wonder, "And the rose persevered."

The elven prince watch in silence as the young lady before him was once more overcome by the enchantment of the night. Sigrid's breathing was regular, long lashes rested on her cheeks, and her pale, youthful face was calm and serene.

"Rest for a while then, daughter of Men," Legolas whispered as he blew out the last candle and exited the room, "May the Lord Lórien bring you naught but sweet dreams..."

* * *

"You sent me to find the Dúnedain, you bid me find the son of Arathorn, and yet you knew he was not one amongst them," Legolas stared at the King of the Woodland Realm in disbelief, "Why, Ada?"

"You were in such haste to leave our kingdom," Thranduil's voice was deep as he glanced at his son from where he was sat in the study, "I only thought it suiting you learnt a lesson."

"A lesson?"

"Yes," Thranduil's eyes were piercing, "The son of Arathorn is but a child, and yet you wasted a year searching amongst the northern woods looking for a ranger. I never bid you sought for him so soon upon our words of parting."

Legolas fisted his hands and paced the King's ornate study lit by warm candles and the fire in the hearth. Thranduil went back to reading the age old parchments strewn all over his table, paying no heed to his son until Legolas spoke up again.

"So that is his future then? To become a ranger... I did not realise you had a gift of foresight."

"And I do not. Such gift is granted to one Elrond of Rivendell, as I hope you have learnt during your brief stay there."

"And he told you of this ranger, why?"

"It so happened that your fate and his are intertwined," Thranduil's voice was smooth as he dipped a quill into a well of ink, "The little boy is Elrond's ward."

Legolas immediately stopped pacing the room and whipped around to look at his father.

"Estel? Do you mean to tell me that the little boy Estel is to be-"

"Aye, but I did not summon you here to discuss Elrond's ward," Thranduil turned back to fix his gaze at the young prince, and the King's voice echoed through the room as the he spoke, "The fate of Middle Earth stands upon the edge of a knife. stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all. I am summoning elven representations from three corners of the world for a council, and I need you to ride to Rivendell."

"You never open our doors to anyone, not even our kin," said Legolas, "I will not ask what incurred this sudden change, Ada, but what became of the White Council?"

"I do not trust Curunír, and Mithrandir meddles," Thranduil narrowed his eyes, "What goes on within Rivendell or Lothlórien will not escape the eyes of the wizards, for their Lord and Lady trust the Istari too much. This meeting is to be held in secrecy, Legolas, no one must learn of it."

"So I assume the Lady Galadriel will send an ambassador."

"She already has."

"Who?"

"The Marchwarden of Galadhrim will sit in my council," said Thranduil, and Legolas's eyes widened, "I will send for a representation from the western shores, Círdan the Shipwright will learn of this."

Silence fell between them, save for the burning of the embers in the fire, until finally Legolas sighed and spoke again.

"...So who would you have me bring from Rivendell... Lord Elrond's sons?"

Thranduil smiled coldly, and the elven prince could see flames flickering dangerously in his father's eyes.

"No... You will bring me the Balrog Slayer."

* * *

Sigrid dreamed.

She was standing on the great shore once more, the sea wind blew past her face, making the tresses of her hair and the thin white fabric of her nightgown flutter. But the smell of the salt was drowned by a sweeter scent of wildflowers... Where could it have come from?

Sigrid looked down at her hands, only to find that she was carrying the same bouquet of woodland flowers that she found on her bed in the healing quarter, and somehow... Somehow she felt like she was edging closer and closer to knowing where it had come from.

Suddenly, a deep and melodious voice sounded in the air.

_Now... Mortal, what illusion should I bring upon you this night?_

Sigrid looked up at the sky and replied.

_I wish upon no dreams._

_None?_  The voice asked.

_Why, whom do you serve?_

A deep and dark laughter sounded through the air, and for a moment Sigrid paled, knowing she should not have defied its owner.

_I am the Master of dreams and desires, I create illusions and lies..._ The owner of the voice said.

_I am Lórien..._

The voice faded away and Sigrid released a breath she did not realise she had been holding. When she opened her eyes again, the great shore was bathed in the glow of the setting sun, and suddenly a pair of arms drew her into an warm embrace from behind.

"I thought I had lost you..." Thranduil's deep and rich voice whispered softly to her, and Sigrid shivered as she felt his long golden hair falling over her shoulders and his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. She leant into his welcoming embrace and closed her eyes.

"Was it you then?" she asked, her voice quiet, "Was it you who pulled me back from the calls of the waves?"

Thranduil did not answer, but his arms around her tightened, and Sigrid could feel the rhythmic beating of his heart on her back whilst his thumb traced the back of her hand. They stood together, watching the sun set into the Sundering Seas, until finally Sigrid turned around and glanced upon the Elven Lord's ethereal beauty. Her fingers lightly traced the contour of his face, and Thranduil closed his eyes, resting his arms around her waist.

"You wear no crown..."

"Nay."

"But why?"

Instead of responding in kind, Thranduil lifted his hand and carded it through her hair, his eyes never leaving hers. His fingers pulled forth her soft brown locks, and when Sigrid looked down, she could see the little wildflowers braided into them.

The flowers that once rested on the King's crown.

"My Lord..."

"Hush now..." Thranduil placed a finger on her soft lips, his deep blue eyes gazed with a thousand of emotions into her own. Then slowly, yet surely, the Elven Lord leant down, until his lips were but a breath away from hers.

_Sigrid..._

_The grains of sand beneath their feet and the waves began to fade away._

_Sigrid._

"Sigrid..." Thranduil's lips moved, forming the one name the Elven Lord vowed never to utter. The King's eyes then fluttered open. The candles in the study had gone out, but the smoke still lingered. For a moment, Thranduil sat still in the darkness, then in a flash, the Elven Lord set aside his crown and swept out of the study, his robes flowing after him as he headed towards the one place which would bring him salvation or an end to it all...

* * *

"I can bath myself, thank you."

"But My Lady... You are still unwell," the handmaiden would not concede.

Sigrid sighed.

It was night time still, and she was standing in a little room warmed by a great fireplace that stood on one side of the wooden walls. Candles and lamps of crystal lined the floor, and a tub of steaming water stood by her. It was an opulent room, luxurious. Fit for a King.

And although her wounds still throbbed, Sigrid was adamant that she was not an invalid, but the elf maid seemed to think otherwise.

"I do not have nightclothes to change," she said suddenly, and the maid gave her a wary, knowing look.

"I will fetch them for you, My Lady," she sighed, "But please do head my words."

The door fell shut, and Sigrid let her eyes linger on it momentarily; satisfied that the handmaiden was out of the room, she began to shrug off the thin white nightgown, determined to get this bathing business done and over with.

The smooth fabric only fell down past her shoulders when a strong pair of arms wrapped around her, long fingers gripped the hem of the dress, halting it just above her chest.

"I would not do that if I were you..." Thranduil leaned down over her shoulder. His whisper was a hot breath against her ear as his arms encircled Sigrid and pulled her back against his powerful body, so close she could feel the slow beating of his heart on her back.

"I do not mean to offend, My Lord," Sigrid lifted her chin, not looking back yet not drawing away despite the hammering of her heart, "But what right have you to be here?"

"This is my Kingdom, and this room is within my quarters."

"This is where I may get undressed."

"Have you no shame?"

"And have you none?"

She could feel the heat radiating from his skin through the thin fabric as Thranduil hummed and dipped his face even lower, his warm breath ghosting over the hollow of her neck as his nose lightly wandered over her cheek. The Elven-King's hand travelled down to hold Sigrid across her waist.

"You should know better than to tempt me..." Thranduil's voice was throaty, taking a gravelly tone; and there was something in it that Sigrid could not quite place... Something akin to desperation.

"I am no siren."

"Nay, for you need not their songs to enchant."

"How now... Have I enchanted you, My Lord?" Sigrid's voice was a whisper, taking on a playful tone, and she could feel the breathing in his chest hitched.

"You dreamed... did you not?"

"I know not what you speak of."

"Sigrid..."

Sigrid felt the answer died away in her throat, as she heard the Elven Lord whisper her name in a tone which held so many promises, so many emotions, and so much... longing.

"My Lord...-"

"Say my name...Sigrid," his lips were on her ear and trailed their way down to her burning cheek.

His fingers toyed with her hair, and in that moment Sigrid threw away all cautions to the wind and turned around to face him... As their eyes met, she felt her gaze lost in the enigmatic pools of azure, and before sigrid could bring herself to stop, she had reached up and felt her fingers tracing the lines of his lips... And his name falling from her own.

"Thranduil..."

The corner of his mouth curved into an inviting smile, and Thranduil's reached out a hand to lift up her chin, their gaze locked as the Elven King slowly leant down... Until his lips were but a breath away from hers.

"...May I?" he whispered.

Suddenly there came a knocking on the door across the room, followed by the voice of the maid requesting for entrance. And before Sigrid knew it, she was standing alone in the middle of the cold room that the fire in the hearth could not warm.

Within that second she felt so hollow, and Sigrid shivered.


End file.
